


The City of Sumatra

by ForeignTongues



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Boredom, Bromance, Drug Abuse, Edgy sherlock, Epic Bromance, Gen, Hurt and comfort, Its missplaced anger, John gets angry, Mary Lives, Mary is sassy as always, Multiple Suicide Attempts, Norbury shoots Sherlock instead, Overdose, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock and Mary work together man, Sherlock gets his wish, Suffering, Suicidal Sherlock, Suicide, Sumatra, The Six Thatchers, The lying detective, dont commit, fuck you I love Mary, its not worth it, mentions of drug abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-09-28 15:04:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10124654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeignTongues/pseuds/ForeignTongues
Summary: Mary doesn't make it in time.Sherlock gets shot.John is left to figure out Sherlock's true intentions, but when he does, things crumble further.***This work is going to be expanded to talking about Sherlock's suicidal problems throughout the entire series. Think, a one-shot for each episode, all kept together. Updated to include a one-shot about the Great Game, the Reichenbach Fall, and now A Study In Pink.





	1. A Study In Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock definitely does not have extreme, self-destructive tendencies.

A box of Mongolian beef and a side of lo mein was what John assumed the standard reward of closing a case. 

He made this silly deduction of his own based off of the immediate, silent cab ride to Great Wall's, straight after John insisted Sherlock get some food. Watching the gangly man stash fork-fulls of beef into his mouth was a reassuring gesture.

They'd returned to the flat to eat, sitting opposite of each other in the kitchen, John haphazardly taking bites with worried glances at the equipment surrounding him. 

John nudged the Bunsen Burner with his forefinger. 

"Could I?-"

"No." 

Sherlock stared at John, somehow remaining miffed while he forked a large roll of lo mein into his left cheek. 

John held for a second, then returned to pushing his food around the to-go container. 

"Right," he grunted. 

John paused, shoulders hunched over the table, utensils in mid-air. 

"Are we going to talk about it?" He asked, setting down the fork and adopting a pose that left his full attention on his new flat-share.   
Sherlock puffed a breath through his nose. 

"Talk about what?" He inquired sarcastically, still remaining bent over his dinner. 

"Look," John said, "I'm a doctor. It's my nature. I just need to know if-"

"If what? If I was really going to take that pill? And if so, if it was self-destructive behavior, verging on suicidal thoughts? The answer is no, Doctor Watson. Like I've said before, I was buying time."

John sniffed. His brow was furrowed in an attempt to help differentiate his place and boundaries in the matter of his new acquaintance. A moment's thought only confirmed his need to meddle as the superstition crept up his neck, chilling John in a barely controlled shiver. 

"I know that whatever I say, you'll deny it. So I won't push the subject. But know that, if you need my help, I am here. And qualified. That too."  
Sherlock looked up at him, glancing sideways as he deducted the manner of the man across from him. 

Seemingly having passed some test, Sherlock acquiesced with a slight nod of the head. 

"Where's the gun?" Sherlock redirected, already knowing the answer from the water spray on John's left lapel and the wind-blown side of his hair. 

...

"Why did you bring me here Geoff? It's a simple case of domestic murder; I would've thought even you could've solved it." 

Lestrade followed Sherlock through the hallway of the deceased's home, and John tagged along behind him, grinning to himself, trying to muffle any giggling arising in his throat. 

They'd only arrived two minutes ago, and after a one minute deduction, Sherlock frisked away, ultimately frazzled.

"It's Greg," Lestrade replied gruffly, holding the door back and letting both John and Sherlock follow through. "And that can-opener situation was confusing, alright?"

Sherlock didn't care to answer; instead, he strode away, leaving a weary Lestrade standing in the doorway. His coat billowed about in the late-night March winds, and John jogged a little to catch up with his fast pace. 

When he reached Sherlock's side, he noticed the man's gait was off. 

Sherlock galloped along, holding his left arm in his right hand, keeping it from jostling. 

"Are you okay?" John asked, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to slow him down. He rounded on Sherlock when the latter stood still.   
John could see how sallow his skin had turned, aggressively increased in the pale lighting. 

"I'm fine," Sherlock seethed through clenched teeth. "Do you have cash for a cab? Afraid I left mine back at the flat."

Sherlock's breaths began to heave, even through the illusion of health he presented John, the doctor spotted it. 

"I think you need to sit down, Sherlock," John recommended calmly, his voice heavy and his hands reassuring with easy force on Sherlock's shoulders. 

"I said, I'm f- ah-"

Sherlock cringed away from John's touch as if in pain. He began to sway on his feet, and John caught him around the waist this time.

"Okay, down we go," John muttered, lowering Sherlock to the concrete. 

When he retracted his arms from his embrace of Sherlock, he felt a splash of something warm drop onto him.

John looked down on his hand, and saw a dark red splotch of blood. 

"God, Sherlock, where are you bleeding?" He demanded. Sherlock just sat, head lowered, trying to focus on breathing steady. 

"I can't help you if you don't tell me," John stated. He grasped Sherlock's wrist, laying two fingers on the pulse point.

Sherlock jerked away with severe motion, like a spooked cat, almost snarling. 

"Fine. I'll find it myself," John grumbled, beginning to yank Sherlock's coat off.

"What're you doin'?"

"Slurring now, great. That's a wonderful sign," John tore off the coat, exasperated, to say the least. 

"'M f'n, les go bagh," Sherlock stubbornly repeated.

John ignored him. 

Underneath his belstaff, the young man's pleated, white shirt was soaked in blood from the left shoulder down to the forearm. 

"Christ!" John exclaimed. "What the bloody hell were you hiding this for?!"

Not waiting for an answer, John tugged the slouching Sherlock upright and tore the sleeve from the cuff, the fabric like duct tape ripping off the skin. 

Sherlock winced. "'S noth'n'."

 

John froze.

With the stained cloth gone, he could make out gaping cuts in various sizes, some vertical, others horizontal, and diagonal. A lot of them looked more nasty than they were dangerous, but about six of the cuts were deep enough to be serious. He couldn't tell in the darkness if any major arteries had been hit, but judging by the flow of blood from the one on the forearm, John assumed the worst. 

"When did this happen," John breathed. He kept the thought out of his head, the perpetrator of these wounds. He couldn't focus on that right now. 

"'Bout n' hour 'go," Sherlock slurred quietly.

John placed his fingers on his neck, counting thready, slow heartbeats, steady as they were.

"Okay."

There were tears all in John's eyes. 

He blinked them away, positively spiteful towards them. 

"I'm calling you an ambulance, and Gre- no, you don't have a choice in the matter, you git, I'm going to g- god, Sherlock, please cooperate!"

The detective pushed John away in feeble attempts to get the man off. 

He was wrapping the coat around Sherlock's arm, placing pressure on the sights of the heaviest flowing cuts. "Lestrade!" He cried.

There was a commotion in the house, the DI springing out.

Sherlock moaned in pain and leaned his weight against John's shoulder, his forehead resting there. 

"Jesus- what happened?" Lestrade panted, having caught up to the two on the ground.

"I think they're self-inflicted," John heard himself confess. Everything felt numb, objective. Distant. 

"Call an ambulance for me, yeah?"

"God, yeah, okay," Lestrade breathed, whisking his mobile from his pocket and frantically giving information when the responder picked up. 

John lifted Sherlock from his shoulder, finding him unconscious. 

There was a small puddle of blood that had already formed underneath Sherlock's arm; the stench of iron, stark in his nostrils, made John want to gag. 

As he grasped Sherlock's wrist to asses that the beat was steady until the paramedics arrived, John couldn't hold back the nagging thought any longer. 

//This is a suicide attempt.// 

He shook his head, leaning his chin on top of Sherlock's soft curls. 

//No one self harms to this extent, do they?//

"Why would he do this," Lestrade asked tiredly. He squatted down beside the pair as John laid Sherlock down to monitor breathing. 

"I mean, he's had his fair share of problems with drugs, but this is different. Sherlock was coherent. He wanted to do this much damage, even while in his right mind."

"Not sure we can call it that any longer," John quipped. Sherlock's breath was starting to get a bit more erratic. 

Lestrade gazed vacantly while John worked. 

"I wonder if it was the bad pill he was about to take," the DI remarked.

John sighed. 

"You know, I'm a bit busy here; need to stay focused." 

Lestrade blinked out of the daze.

There was a long pause that highlighted the ever growing heaving and thin breaths from Sherlock, the rustle of fabric as John checked vital signs, the faint warm winds, the lights of the city.

"I should've seen this coming. It's my fault," Lestrade despaired, looking less emotional and more expired in exhaustion. His face fell and wrinkles protruded, his grey hair and tan skin a monotonous figure.

"Well, he's not dead yet," John said huskily. His fingers were dancing to the arrhythmic pulse that had arisen. 

There were faint sirens in the distance. 

Every wet choke for breath and relaxing of tired muscles within Sherlock's spent body made gravity pull at John's hopes. 

"This is the worst bit, yeah?" Lestrade spoke. 

"Sorry?"

"Waiting. For help, I mean."

 

It was.

John did nothing but wait for the two hours after.

Waiting in the ambulance.

Waiting outside of the surgery.

Waiting for Sherlock to wake up.

 

Forty-one stitches, cessations of the heart, blood transfusions, and now, 

 

Silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, Doctor Watson, to the world of Sherlock Holmes' self-destructive tendencies.  
> Comments are always cherished deep down into my core. Plus, they help me get out these one-shots faster. Four episodes down, nine to go.


	2. The Great Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A more troubling ending to The Great Game.

His knees lost their will the moment Moriarty walked out. 

The wind of Sherlock's urgency whipped past him as the nimble fingers tore off the Semtex in one fluid motion.

Somehow, he'd managed to find himself on the ground, back propped along the wall. John couldn't hear much over his panting lungs, but shyly saw as Sherlock began to pace, a sheen of sweat that was wiped away with a quick sleeve of the Browning to his lip. 

The tingling sensation of adrenaline subsided soon enough, and John finally resumed coherent thought after that immense relief. 

Maybe it was a bit of hysteria that brought upon the dry humor, but John had the need to mumble to his distressed friend, 'Good thing nobody saw that.'

'What?' Sherlock breathed, obviously too caught up with his process of thought in cataloging the recent events. 

John swallowed down saliva in an attempt to coagulate enough for the dryness of his tongue and throat.

Perhaps it was the curious side of his brain that kept returning to these odd statements of inclination towards some affection for his friend. John didn't care to explore that part of himself, now or ever, but it did slip out in some inkling humor at times.

'You, tearing off my clothes in a darkened swimming pool," John huffed out, offering a cheeky grin to Sherlock, who visibly relaxed tense muscles and chuckled. They were alive. They were safe.

John took another few moments to collect himself. His brain was the clearest it'd been since Afghanistan, but his body was struggling to overcome the fight or flight instinct. The rush of euphoria within the adrenaline made all of his nerve endings leap for joy. John felt alive. 

Sherlock still stood before him, seemingly contemplating the moves of Moriarty beyond this point and calculating what next to expect. His eyes were darting, spinning, smile widening with thrill. John was a little intimidated or unnerved by the look; he wasn't sure which. Either way, he wasn't one to talk. 

When he'd caught his breath, John adjusted his arms and was making an effort to return to a standing position when the click of the back door echoed into the room. 

The creaking swing that followed with the comedic stature of Moriarty took all of the breath away once more, stealing John back into Vatican Cameos. 

"Sorry boys!" James called, "I'm so changeable!"

John caught Sherlock's dreading glance, his own flickering back and forth in a flurry when multiple red sights found their way onto the pair of them. Suddenly, his lungs felt pressed on both sides by invisible stones. More weight. 

"I can't let you continue, I just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mi-nd," he spoke, satirical inflictions drenching every manic word. 

John stared resolutely at Sherlock now. He hoped to see some plan, something brewing. All he could find was the face of Sherlock Holmes meeting a wall. 

Still, Sherlock Holmes had fight. "Then possibly, my answer has crossed yours."  
He raised the L9 Browning easily. Too easily.

It was aimed at the Semtex. God.  
John wasn't sure if he was ready to die, at this point. He'd met Sherlock. He'd found war. There was elegance in the world once more. 

For someone quick to throw his life under the gun for others, that did not change John's appreciation of life. Others first. Himself last. But the end goal was for all, alive and well. 

He prayed Sherlock was merely buying time. 

The water in the pool lapped lazily, the lights rang sharply in their eyes and ears. 

This was it, John thought. At least it would be quick. At least their deaths would mean the lives of people Moriarty would later inflict trouble upon.  
With a blink, Sherlock swiftly drew the gun to his chin. 

"Ah. Pawn to Knight." Jim studied Sherlock. 

"What the hell are you doing?" John demanded. His heart accelerated when Sherlock gave no recognition. 

"I'm playing the game," Sherlock said. His thumb flicked the hammer.

"Jesus Sherlock-" John jumped, trying to lean forward towards him but being met with another few sniper lights. 

"Go ahead then. Off you pop," Moriarty smacked. He looked calm and in control, excited to see Sherlock made into a corpse. Sherlock must've seen something more. 

"What a world would it be with no rival to the Consulting Criminal?" Sherlock inquired. His jaw graced the metal of the gun with each word. John's stomach dropped. Dear God, please let there be a point to this.

"Boring. Wouldn't it."

It was a statement, not a question. John noticed Sherlock's fingers shaking ever so slightly. The way his breath heaved gently. The way Sherlock blinked slow.  
"Sherlock-"

"Be quiet, John," he snapped, never taking his sights off of Moriarty. Or, his sights off of his neck. 

"You'd miss this. The two of us. Into battle," Sherlock drawled, "My death means your agony."

"That's quite a theory you've got going." Moriarty stepped one foot closer. "Though, I think it's spawned from ego rather than observations. Care to test it?"

It was dead silence. 

John didn't breathe. 

Sherlock inhaled through the nose, long and drawn out. His index finger began to nudge the trigger.

John was sure he was about to witness his best friend die and not be able to do a damn thing about it.

"Oh, fine." Moriarty pouted, causing John to jump through his skin. He shook his head, lolling it back against the walls in relief. 

He watched Moriarty roll his eyes, puffing like a child, then snap his fingers. The snipers' guns were retracted, John realized, eyes following the dots on Sherlock's chest and back. But the snipers were untraceable in their perches. 

"You're not going to pull that trump card every time I threaten you, are you? That'd definitely be no fun."

Sherlock's arm lowered, but his grip on the Browning remained resolute. 

"No. Only when it's the right time to die," he seethed. 

John looked at him in disbelief. He'd been ready to off himself if it could save John Watson. That was a thought that scared him, scared him very much. 

"Guess it's not today then," Moriarty chirped in sing-song. "Oh well." 

John grimaced at this man's nature. He'd believed Sherlock to be a psychopath at some points, but... Jim was the real deal.  
Moriarty began walking backwards, hands held behind him, a smugness floating about him despite his defeat.

"You've changed my mind this one, Sherlock. Until the next!"

He gave a cheery wave of the hand before kicking the door with his heel, spinning through the frame and out of sight. 

"Bye for now," Sherlock echoed back.

 

 

...

John avoided speaking until they were safe in their flat. He was afraid he'd burst if his lips parted. 

His silence lasted no longer than once Sherlock shed his attire with an unnaturally casual manner for a man who, thirty minutes ago, was about to commit suicide, and plopped himself onto the couch. 

"What the hell were you thinking?!" John cried. He felt all of the thoughts pile up in his throat like bile as he stood on the rug, in front of a lump of fabric.

"We're speaking now, then?" answered the face dug under the pillow. Sherlock swung about, coming to a stop when he was comfortably facing John.

"You're welcome, by the way."

"For what, you almost blowing your brains out and leaving me helpless to do anything?' 

John's shoulders rose and fell with tremendous agitation. The wrinkles in his face stood out now, making him appear much older and much more weary. 

"Don't worry John, I knew what I was doing. With me dead, there'd be no fun in killing you. Moriarty would probably get off better watching you grieve than taking your life."

"No, I don't mean that-Christ, Sherlock-"  
John rubbed his eyes and cheeks. When he'd finished, Sherlock blurred back into his vision, sitting there, looking more bored and tired than anything. 

"Look," he spoke, as if to a timid child, but with tight-mouthed aggression, "there is a reason they don't allow suicidal soldiers onto the field."

"I'm not suicidal," Sherlock protested. Watson wished he could believe him. Wished he could believe the serene look of indifference other than the quirk of an eyebrow at his accusation, the pale skin that almost looked severed when crowded by the dark dye of the fabrics around him. It felt too normal.

"Maybe not," John mended, "But you're willing to throw your life away at every chance possible."

"I am not," Sherlock further stated, incredulous. He rose to a quick sitting position now, positively bothered by John's prodding. "If I wanted to die, I'd be dead, John. Trust me."

It was supposed to be reassuring, somewhere in Sherlock's twisted perception of human emotion. To Doctor Watson, it definitely was not.

"I'm not even going to get into that right now," John said, exasperated. "All I need to know is that you're not going to leave me alone the second you fancy."

"I was not about to kill myself, for god's sake. I knew how Moriarty would react to such a move. If I were set off the bombs, he'd have the antagonist's ending he wanted. If he let his snipers kill both of us, he would've felt triumph at defeating his only equal. But if I took both fulfilling situations away from him, and threatened my life solely, what would he have gotten out of that? Perhaps a sense of inadequacy, resentment. Whatever he'd feel, there'd be unfinished business. It wouldn't have been chess any longer. Just another pawn gone that he could no longer mess with."

Sherlock's face was red with the ending of his speech. He gasped for air again, totally abusing the worth of the last, then dropped back onto the pillow, eyes to the ceiling. 

John was silent for a moment.

"It was the same with that cabbie. Risking your life to win some damn game."  
John leaned into Sherlock's space, looming above him, voice low and dangerous.

"And life is not goddamn game of chess. I'd be a sodding, bloody mess, worse off than when you first found me. The L9 was supposed to be my ticket to freedom. Not yours."

For the first time, John had drawn a realistic response out of Sherlock, other than a facade of integrity and disinterest. 

John watched his eyes grow wide, a question in and of themselves. Sherlock didn't speak though. Only stared.

John thought he might have broke his perfect calculus with those last statements. He'd expected Sherlock had known. 

"You didn't..." John stopped. 

"No. Not, at least; not to that extent," 

Sherlock spoke softly, still an inevitable gravel to his tone. 

"Well," John said, straightening his spine, "You know where I stand, then. Either we both stay, or not at all. Got me?"

John realized it wasn't a fair ultimatum to make. He wasn't much for ultimatums himself. But, he had to give Sherlock a reason for self preservation, and this was the best one he had. His own life. 

Sherlock didn't answer, just gave a minute nod of his head, then let his eyes glaze, visibly retreating to his mind palace at his hands rose to clasp underneath his nose. 

"Good," John breathed, pacing back to his room.

"Good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In exchange for me to write these little plots for each episode depicting Sherlock's suicidal side, you gotta recommend me some really good Suicidal Sherlock fics. On here, or any other site. Please.


	3. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly tends to Sherlock after the fall. Things mostly go as planned...

It was an hour after the- well, after. 

Molly was still trembling from the anxiety of the event.

First, there had been Sherlock- although he survived the fall off Bart's with the aid of the inflated cushion, that did not make the impact any less prone to injury.

She'd quickly induced Sherlock into a haze of morphine before grabbing the calf of his broken left leg and setting it. 

As a woman used to writing off the dead, not saving the living, the crack that ensued from the alignment of the bones did her stomach no favors. 

Molly pushed onwards, adding stints to the few fractures, wrapped linen around Sherlock's bruised ribs. He was awake, but hardly coherent; she'd given him extra morphine, knowing his tolerance of drugs, but it had been a little too much a little too fast. 

When he'd been fully tended to, Molly moved on to breaking the false news to John.

John already knew the answer. That didn't make it any easier for him.  
She watched helplessly as he crumpled, leaning off the ledge of the ambulance back he was sitting on. 

Molly embraced him, careful not to let him fall, and wrapped the shock blanket more tightly around his shoulders. 

He looked so weary and beaten, colourless and vacant. 

It's for his safety, she told herself as she entered the hospital once more, letting any stuffed tears release in quick streams and her knees quit quaking as badly before she returned to Sherlock. She wasn't sure if she was afraid of Sherlock's judgement, or afraid of his reaction to John's state.

Through the double doors she went, brushing her fingers loosely against them to calm the kickback. 

Sherlock was sat in a chair, his legs propped on another, facing the direction of the entrance. He'd been waiting. 

The room was quiet for a moment. 

Sherlock just stared at Molly, deducing her. She knew he could see the tremors in her skin, the swelling under her eyes, remnants of the fuzz off the orange shock blanket under her nails, the red lobe of her right ear that she tugged whenever she was nervous, the multiple strands of hair that fell out of the ponytail, adding to her look of tousled exasperation.

Molly didn't squirm under the deductions. It was easier for her image to do the talking rather than from her mouth. 

He seemed to go on for ages, and Molly's vision began to cloud in her reciprocating stare. The above-head lights were between flickering and constant, switching in between statuses, and the contents of the room blended together in an off-white that created a world of unreality. 

Even Sherlock, his skin pale except for some minor abrasions of red scabbing, bandaged together like a cracked egg shell, seemed an ethereal illusion. 

Molly swallowed.

He finally rested his eyes on hers, and without hesitation, asked, "How bad?"

He meant John, of course. Molly inhaled a bit, looking down and scraping her clear nail polish off.

"Not good," she answered, giving a puff of breath with the statement. 

Tears began to well again, and Molly turned her face upward, forcing gravity to pull them back.

She was shaking her head, shaking her skin, "I don't know how he's going to make it through this. I don't know how I'm going to even-"

A hiccup cut short the wind behind her words. 

She hated to cry in front of anyone. She was a strong woman despite all of the treatment she got, and wasn't used to opening up. Sherlock had changed that in her, though. It was only with him that she lost control of her emotions, couldn't keep her feelings reigned in. Perhaps she felt more comfortable with him, as he did with her. 

She was examining the scuffs on her worn shoes when he stumbled to his feet, hobbling with the cast and pain of his ribs. 

Molly felt his sinuous fingers lay calm on either shoulder, Sherlock's palms reaching in a flat grip. 

Any other day, a flutter would've warmed her chest, and her eyes would dilate, pulse quickening. But it was not a normal day. 

She met his eyes, and could detect barely any emotion in his hooded ones. He was positively deathly, all bruised and marred and dark.  
But she saw how sad he was, behind the mask of constant neutrality. It alarmed her, its extent. 

"I am sorry," Sherlock apologized. She knew it was for the burden of putting her friends through this trauma. Watching as they broke. For the future of lying to them, years and years of lying and knowing truth that would set them free. 

Molly knew what she'd signed up for. She knew why it had to be done. Even though they'd suffer, they'd be alive. 

And one day, Sherlock would come back.

She smiled weakly at him, as if to reassure Sherlock she'd be okay. They both knew that wasn't true.

"It's alright," Molly replied, taking Sherlock into a full hug and burrowing her head against his chest.

He was a bit stiff, but slowly softened to the touch, and awkwardly placed his arms around her back. 

...

Her flat was small, but every inch of it was decorated in a modern, homely manner. 

It was odd to Molly, walking Sherlock into her house. She never had any visitors, let alone him. It was her heart in the establishment, like a building copied from her humanity.

Sherlock made a mad dash for the fluffed couch, as fast as possible, at least, tossing and turning on top of it when his ribs protested his preferred angles. 

His white t-shirt and loose pants were twisting uncomfortably on him, and Molly had to help Sherlock get adjusted. 

He still hadn't spoken much since the hospital. Molly worried, because there was something she was missing, some piece that fell away. 

Sherlock's eyes were closed when Molly returned from her room, taking care to drape a blush coloured quilt over Sherlock. 

He didn't move, and she guessed this was the signal that he was done with interaction for the day.

Molly sighed. "Goodnight Sherlock."

Nothing. 

...

It was ten minutes later. 

Molly donned her night clothes, had her teeth and hair brushed, when she heard a commotion in the flat. 

For a second, she reckoned it was the downstairs couple. The old man had a bad leg, and he often had to be rushed to an ER for tripping on something as mundane as the carpet.

But when she heard the scuffling once again, Molly left her room and went to see if Sherlock was raiding her homestead for any over-the-counter make-shift stimulants. After today, she could hardly blame him.

Stepping into the den, she immediately saw that Sherlock had left his perch on the couch. 

Turning her head, Molly peered through the doorframe of the kitchen.

She saw Sherlock's foot, the heel rubbing on the tiles in a jagged motion.  
For the second time that day, she felt an indescribable dread. 

Molly rushed in to find Sherlock on the floor, back to the cupboard under the sink. 

There was a zip-tie around his neck, Sherlock's hands pulling it as tight as he could manage, his eyes bleeding, face bloating, body seizing for air. 

"God!" Molly screamed, running and sliding towards him, attacking the hands pulling the zip-tie over the asphyxiated arteries. His arms were massive compared to her muscles, and there was little she could do to pry them off. 

Sherlock yanked away from her, looking Molly dead in the eyes as he emitted choked gasps. 

She was in total terror.

Thinking quickly, Molly sprung to the side cabinet, reaching in a retracting a knife from it. She pushed back the cabinet so hard that other appliances fell out onto the floor.

Molly fell to her knees, digging her thumb underneath the zip-tie. The friction burned her skin.

Sherlock used one hand to shove her shoulder back, flailing with bulging eyes of desperation. 

Molly kept her grip between the skin of his neck and the plastic, working to bend the knife in between as well. Sherlock struggled to grip her wrist away, but he was on the verge of unconsciousness, his limbs sluggish and eyes unfocused.

Molly pulled the knife towards her, breaking the zip-tie and almost nicking herself with the bounding inertia. 

Sherlock was already unconscious, his eyes rolled back when she raised the lids with her fingers. 

His chest voluntarily suctioned for air, his back arched, gasping. 

Molly was so full of relief that she began sobbing as she laid Sherlock down on the kitchen floor and leaned his chin back, creating an easier pathway for the intake of breath.

Through the tears, she saw the exact line of burns that made a perfect circle around Sherlock's neck. The tie had gone through to the dermis, a few centimeters deep, the sides of the wound puffing up and making the depth even more exaggerated. 

Sniffling, she rose to a stand and followed to the bathroom where she grabbed her first aid kit before rushing back to Sherlock.

His heart rate was still high, but it had slowed. Molly could tell that his breathing was better, but she suspected he had given his windpipe damage, by the sound of his intake, gravelly and shuddering. 

With careful fingers that definitely did not shake, she took her time in dabbing medicine over the neck wound and putting a bandage over the deepest part, then sat with her head leaned against the cabinets, allowing herself to catch her own breath.

...

Molly worried that he might have suffered brain damage or amnesia. But when he woke three minutes after, Sherlock remembered everything. 

Molly almost wished he'd been given that one small mercy of ignorance. 

They talked for a bit. It was mostly one-sided with a few grunts from Sherlock at the threats of calling Mycroft, before Molly helped drag Sherlock back onto the couch to sit. 

Again, she wrapped the quilt around him, and went to put on a spot of tea.

While he drank, she let her eyes wander over the yellowing bruises that formed on the edges of the banding, the bloodshot, darting eyes, the tiny blood vessels that exploded like stars underneath his skin, from the neck up. 

If Sherlock noticed how her entire body trembled and how blood vessels had popped underneath her eyes, he didn't mention anything either. 

Because he'd proven not to be trusted, Molly grabbed a blanket from her closet and laid to rest on lazy-boy. 

Sherlock agreed to being monitored until the morning, where he'd planned to go to Mycroft's before hand anyway. 

Molly agreed not to tell on him, to go to the nearest market and buy a menagerie of scarfs, and to supply him with scar-prevention ointment before he left her flat in the morning. 

Perhaps Mycroft would assume the injuries were from the impact. Molly hoped that he'd seen through Sherlock, prayed that he'd help Sherlock and not let him out of his sight. 

Molly gazed at the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest as he laid asleep on the couch. 

She might have snuck some sleep medicine in his tea.

He may have not argued when he deduced the contents.

And now, Molly was nodding off, the comfort of Sherlock being safe for now allowing her muscles to fully relax. 

It was going to be a long night. A long month.

A long year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I'm Kay and I write suicide fics to help release my frustration for wanting to self-destruct!! What fun!!
> 
> You should totally comment something. Idk what. Could be the entire script for Hamlet or the Russian alphabet. Surprise me.


	4. The Six Thatchers

The City of Sumatra

'Il y a quelque chose de plus terrible qu'un enfer de souffrances - un enfer d'ennui.' ~ Victor Hugo

 

Death looked across the hallowed seas and awaited what would come. 

-

 

Miscalculation:

Emotional error. 

The entire scene had been intricately planned in Sherlock's prowess before the moment he accused the haggard lady with a specified favorite lollipop flavour. 

From the moment her distal tips grabbed and rested mandible grip on the hilt of the weapon, Sherlock decisively egged on the bullet. 

He could hear John's bated breath, the vibrating tremor in his hand returning. Danger was his sedative, but in the case of Sherlock Holmes, fear preluded. 

The D.I. was throwing unsubtle glances at Sherlock, plainly reading, 'What the hell are you doing?'

If looks could verbally penetrate, then Sherlock's unspoken reply would've been, 'Fulfilling my wish.'

But of course, Sherlock's face remained unreadable unless willing to be read. All focus remained on Norbury, arm at hip, patience thinning. 

A few more quips, Sherlock calculated. A few more jabs before oblivion. 

He saw the moment Vivian inhaled, straightened her shoulders, mind taking a malicious turn. Sherlock could hardly blame her. 

She was easily manipulated, like anyone else. 

The rush of wind accompanied Mary jumping towards him, arms stretched. 

Then he was on the ground. 

 

There was screaming vacantly struggling through the muffled sirens singing in his ears, calling him to the deep. 

Vibration of foots striking carpet striking concrete. The pulsing, experienced hands folding what felt like plastered skin away to let his body breathe. 

It was then he realized he wasn't, in fact, breathing. 

Confused, Sherlock demanded his lungs to draw breath. Every blasted suction through his trachea earned a quarrel with liquified lungs. 

It was then he began to panic. He couldn't bloody breathe. 

A blurred face reigned above him, casting golden orbs of light to reflect from the enlightened hair. A woman. 

Counting. 

Ah yes, Mary, he finally registered, after another series straggling breaths in syncopation with added fingers that didn't quite supply oxygen to his red blood cells. She looked quite stern. He wondered what he'd done to deserve reprimanding. 

His bones gathered tremors, his breath quickening. Sherlock couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't see. 

And then, an immense amount of pressure took hold on the point of destruction. A palm, clamping the entrance wound. 

'Stop', he choked, feeling a thick liquid rising in his larynx. He tried wistfully to spit it out. It slid and drained over the side of his cheek. 

More chaos. More screaming, yelling, movement. 

Mary had given up on the counting by now, instead trapping his mouth with simulated breath. More sirens, more pressure. 

'Breathe, you damn bastard,' pled a desperate tenor. He immediately knew it was John. 

But he was trying, couldn't John understand that? 

His limbs were grasped simultaneously, locked beside Sherlock's joints. Against his will, his body vocalized what would've been a scream if he could have put enough air into it. Exiting his lips, it was more of a whimper. 

The raging fire broke through the wall of blankness too soon, making every vein perceive a scraping, clawing feeling, climbing back to his arteries, the aorta screaming the loudest, demanding more oxygen that Sherlock couldn't supply. 

It was agony. 

It was what he'd wanted. 

His eyes rolled back before they had a chance to place the tube down his throat. 

-

 

It was an hour later. 

Watson stood pacing in the waiting room, sweat covering his clothing at the sight of the glands. 

'John, he's going to pull through. He's done it before,' Mary spoke, staring intently at John. 

When he shook his head and rubbed his face with vigor, she persisted.  
'He's been on the table for almost an hour. That's good. Most victims of a punctured lung are dead in twenty minutes.'

'I know,' John breathed in a grumbled tone, then inhaled deeply through a pinched nose. He looked at Mary, and his shoulders sunk a little. 

'You didn't see him. His face.' He shook his head once more, as if to eradicate the worrying thought. 'I've seen it before.'

'We've been over this,' Mary said in exasperation, 'His suicide was faked. You can't base any of Sherlock's emotions then on this situation.'

John stopped pacing. He went to sit beside Mary, tucking his cold hands into her warm ones, caressing them softly, as if making sure she wasn't a figment of imagination.

She watched his fingers trace the wrapping on her right hand, sighing in resignation of the words that would follow. 

'It could've been you,' he whispered, looking up into her eyes. 

'But it wasn't. I'm still here, John. You don't need to dwell on the possibilities right now, with me, or with Sherlock. All we can do is wait.'

She held his gaze during the pause, as if that could sear the hope she had for Sherlock into her husband. 

He nodded curtly, 'I understand, but-'

'No,' Mary cut in, 'We're both alive, and it's only a matter of time before they've got him closed up. He'll be alright.'

John set his teeth and pursed his jaw, folding his lips over one another in various expressions. 

He knew better than to argue the point with Mary. 

But he also knew better than to believe Sherlock would actually be alright. 

So he sat with her, hands close, and waited in hospital silence. The silence consisted of surgical beeps, white noise from the air conditioners, the hiccuping breaths of family waiting for news on other endangered souls, the scratching of pens, dial tones, and the imminent voice of Death whispering through the halls. 

-

They were led in by a frazzled surgeon who deposited them in front of the door with a quick briefing before going to the next patient. 

Stable. Uncooperative. Weak. Miracle. 

Awake.

As soon as John entered, the first sight before him was a soggy Sherlock straining to press the morphine machine. His curls were slick and eyes sunken, and yet, he was strong enough to entertain lustful cravings.

'Can't keep our hands off the sweeties, can we,' he grunted passively, announcing his and Mary's presence. Sherlock's head swung to them in drunken movement, then turned to resume pressing the north-pointing arrow to an even further degree. The translucent tape over his IV began to rip from Sherlock's skin, the heart monitor increasing. 

'I have a high tolerance,' Sherlock remarked flatly. As if he hadn't kissed Death sixty minutes previous. 

John strode to the right of the bed and swiftly pulled the IV system away from Sherlock, examining the dosage he had been attempting to reach. 

John's body went still. Sherlock huffed and fell back onto his pillow. 

'I'm not in the mood for a lecture. Could we just skip to the part where you praise my miraculous recovery?' 

Heat rose to John's cheeks, legs beginning to quake. He removed his hand from the slick-plastic surface of the monitor after a series of southward clicks, and faced Sherlock with square motions. 

Sherlock held his glare, then rolled his eyes, starting when his head ached.

'Damn you to hell, Sherlock Holmes,' he said darkly, a statue of pure malice. 

'John, don't now.' Mary began, impossibly quick in understanding the truth. 

He jerked his head to her. 

'Do you want me to just let this slide?!' John cried. Mary grimaced at Sherlock, who didn't bother to look at the scene unfolding. 

'You bloody cock. You really think I wouldn't have known, would've thought you 'accidentally' pushed Norbury too far, 'accidentally' upped your morphine to a dangerous level in a delirious, post-surgery state? What the hell were you thinking? No, I know; you were thinking you could leave us, leave Rosie! You're her goddamn godfather. How could you kill yourself in front of me again, you selfish bastard!' He yelled, heaving. 

Crying.

'Will you even look at me?'

The heart monitor was perfectly stable, and Sherlock perfectly calm. It was as if he hadn't heard John's protests at all. 

Seconds passed without a word. John was about to leave the room, leave the hospital, leave the city, leave England. Anything to distance himself from this obvious display of self destruction.

Then he spoke. 'I'm sorry Mary. For,' he gestured with thin fingers, 'the hand.'

'Ah, that,' she spoke with a grin. 'It was my decision. I would've taken more than a bullet to the hand to save you. A lung? Perhaps.' Her smile had the ability to diffuse blood from waters of the Dead Sea. Sherlock offered a return smirk to Mary, who leaned against the wall, arms crossed in comfortability. 

'Elle essaya de sourire de nouveau, et expira,' Sherlock recited, eyes vacant.

'Sorry, what?' John asked, though not entirely directed towards the former comment. His jaw had tightened ever so slightly by the twisting of his nerves. 

'It's French,' Mary answered in disregard for the real question, 'from an old piece of literature. 'She essayed to smile again, and expired.'

'French origins then?' Sherlock inquired, looking positively overjoyed by her opening up information so he'd have some form of distraction. 

'Your English accent is impecable.'

'It took you long enough.'

'Okay,' John cried once more, 'that is enough. I don't bloody care what you think is the best time or place to address this, Mary, but as far as I'm concerned, I am his doctor, and I'll be damned if I don't take immediate action to assess my patient.'

Sherlock grinned at the statement of 'I am his doctor', glad that his and Mary's diversion ended John's rampage of anger short. 

'Ask away, good doctor,' he said, playing along to the whole affair of suicidal patient. 

John bit his tongue. 

'How long.'

The air quieted for the next minute, thin and deoxygenated. Sherlock parted dry lips. 

'Since Bart's.'

John felt his physical will crumble, and fell into the guest chairs beside him. 

'It was a suicide mission. Clear Moriarty's web, then find some high-strung Serbians to finish me off.'

'But why, Sherlock?'  
John kneaded his knuckles on his leg. 

'I was a dead man, of course. There was no purpose for me after that than to be true to the world's perception of my existence.'

'No Sherlock,' Mary demanded.  
'Why.'

They both awaited with a stern gaze as Sherlock struggled to speak the truth. His fingers twitched, held captive in the heart monitor.

'Because I was tired of living,' he finally answered, and John could see the tension in his body squirming underneath. 

When neither Mary nor John replied, Sherlock continued.

'I've been like this all of my life. Craving death. Even as a child.'  
He gathered a breath. 

'But, there was always something that had to be done, had to be solved. So, I found my release in cocaine when I was sixteen. You've worried it would kill me, but it was the only thing keeping me alive.'

'After I had defeated Moriarty and his vast organization, I decided that it was the perfect opportunity to have my final release.'

'Then Mycroft came, telling me I was needed. I had an excuse to come back to you.'

John softened, holding his head in his palms. He was the other release. 

'But once I'd returned, I found that I'd failed you, that you truly didn't want me back from the dead. You had put me to rest, and I was infuriated that I hadn't complied to the same fate. You had Mary. You were to be wed. I was merely an obstacle to your happiness.'

'Please don't say that,' John begged. He was fighting to force suffocation of the trailing tears. 

'Just let him finish,' Mary spoke.

John nodded. 

'I was putting you in danger repeatedly, threatening you and Mary. Until I was sure there was no longer any threat to your life, I couldn't die. And now... You have a full family, a daughter. The longer I remained, the easier it would be for another threat to appear. I was merely exterminating the threat and the obstacle. And, getting my wish. Death to my suffering, and to my boredom. A win-win,' he ended lamely. 

John rose from his chair and came to sit along with Sherlock on the gritty mattress. Though Sherlock would deny it later, John swore he saw tears in his eyes as well. 

He rested one gentle hand on the pale, malnourished shoulder of his best mate. Sherlock was motionless, too defeated to care anymore.

'I speak for the both of us when I say that you are one of the most important people in our life.' 

John's breath hitched at the settling of the words Sherlock had spoken, the shock diminishing. 

'We make the choice to be around you, because we love you. You are not, and have never been, an obstacle, a burden, a freak, or purposeless. The occasional cock, well, have to be honest with that one, yes. But you are our family. We will help you get through this, you got me? There's no reason to suffer in silence anymore.'

Mary walked to John's side, stooping at the bed post to add her two cents of, 'I agree wholeheartedly.'

Sherlock didn't speak, didn't move. Not when they said their goodbyes for the night, not when a nurse came to stand in as a guard, not when he woke up the next morning to a questioning psychiatrist, and not even when John tearfully begged him to speak.

-

Five weeks. 

Five weeks Sherlock slumbered in silence, retreating to his palace as a final attempt of release.

In the first week, he was released from the hospital on mind-numbing bedrest. John remained at his crippled side for three nights, spine slacking against the plush mahogany chair. At the initial signal of circadian rhythm, Sherlock stood and traveled about the flat to collect any remnants of cocaine and heroin to keep on hand, stashed in the lining of his pillowcase after careful stitches, for the time in which John left to exchange for Molly to exchange for Lestrade. 

His refusal to eat was met with aggravated forced spoons and fork-fulls, starting with pleading, then resorting to threats when Sherlock offered no response. As to relish in the small amount of dignity he had, Sherlock would finally give into a few sips of concentrated soup. Or maybe, rather, he wished to please John. 

It would make up for the times that Watson came for his watch-shift to find Sherlock on his back on the bed, gagging on the bile that the cocaine tossed upwards. 

No matter how many times Lestrade ordered a drugs bust, there was always a secret supply hidden in plain sight for the next change in guard. 

Eventually, Mary was recruited, Mycroft intruded, and Mrs. Hudson volunteered. 

They worried at first that Sherlock might take advantage of her aging muscles, but he seemed to behave the best for her. 

Following the third week, Sherlock could walk with ease, and was trusted skeptically. Things appeared almost normal. John wasn't able to differ Sherlock's true intentions at this stage, which lead to the disaster of the fourth week. He had his homeless workers fetch him a shit load of grams. They were fed into his system, and one case of arrhythmia, overdose, and detox later, John dumped him back at 221B. 

Then Faith came.

-

'Sherlock, if you don't take this case, I will call Mycroft. 

'A low blow, even for you.'

'Come off it; you need this. At least see if it's above a seven. She's waiting in den. Up you get.'

 

He gripped Faith's gun with shaking hands. 

 

'Uh, Sherlock- sorry to interrupt, but Mary's been called in, and I need to go get Rosie to Molly, but I'll be back in an hour, alright? Get Mrs. Hudson if you need anything. I'm trusting you.'

'Then your trust is well placed. This is definitely a nine.'

 

Sherlock wet his lips, ingesting intravenously, through circulatory, digestive, respiratory. Clouds of smoke blew flakes around his mouth.  
Skid marks littered his arm like scuffs on a trophy. 

 

'The gun, please.' 

 

It wasn't enough. The symptoms of overdose crept up through his muscles, shaking them, racking his stomach, racing his heart. No bile. Just seizures. Still breathing.

 

'You're suicidal. You're allowed chips, trust me. It's about the only perk.'

 

'Amazing.'

'I know.'

'I meant the chips.'

 

It lasted three minutes; ineffective. There was none left. 

 

'Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it!'

'Faith?'

 

Last resort. Sherlock brought the gun under his left clavicle. His hands were unsteady, unyielding. 

He inhaled. Pulled the trigger. 

-

John legged up the entrance to 221B. 

'Hello John,' Mrs. Hudson greeted immediately, skirting down the hall and planting a kiss on his cheek. The door to the Rimmald's slammed shut with ferocity, and profanities could be heard through the muffled walls. 

'They dealing again?' 

'I could smell it from the third floor. They've got three days before I throw their asses out onto the street.' 

John grinned. 

 

A gun sounded. 

 

'Damn- that angry?' She spat. 'Their last payment was already doubled for heroin possession, but adding defamation of property will make it bloody triple!' She raised her voice at the last bit, calling over her shoulder. 

'No,' John whispered, his voice faltering. He streamed up the stairs, demanding Mrs. Hudson to, 'Call 999! We need an ambulance!'

His heart pounded, and he felt a cold sweat creeping out of his pores. When John arrived at the door, he wasted no time in thrusting it open, even though his mind begged him to spare himself. 

Sherlock was on the floor, his blood staining the carpet. He was gasping and clawing at the gun that had fallen to his side. 

He'd missed his heart.

John threw himself at the gun, but Sherlock snagged it before John could feel the metal. Sherlock pulled it over his heart, his thumb stressing in his attempts to flick the hammer.

John was on top of him in an instant, grabbing Sherlock's fingers.

As he started to pry them away from the trigger, John cried, 'Please Sherlock, don't! Give it to me!'

Hot breath tickled their chins, Sherlock's bones jutting out and sinking against John's flesh. Both forms were shaking violently, teeth bared. All John received in reply was an animalistic growl as Sherlock's brows furrowed, full focus on getting one finger on the trigger. 

John used his elbow to push into Sherlock's flesh wound, which earned a howl and a lessening grip from the other man. He then tore the gun out of Sherlock's hand, clicking the safety and casting it to the edge of the flat. 

'It's over Sherlock, you've lost!' John told him, but Sherlock persisted to struggle under John. 

Sirens crept closer to 221B, and within seconds John saw the flashing lights through the window. 

He jolted Sherlock's left arm to him, holding both wrists with and iron grip. 

There was blood on both of their hands, coating Sherlock's jacket and back. 

John saw Sherlock's eyes begin to haze from blood loss.

There were tears flowing loosely from Sherlock's ducts. When vibrations crawled under his skin and the room span, he understood his defeat.

'John,' he wept. 'Please.'

'I'm sorry,' he heard John reply before the darkness swallowed his vision.

 

 

-

Death greeted him in surprise, never expecting his prey to arrive early.  
Death licked his lips expectantly, eager to collect the masterful soul. He smelt the defeat and depression radiating off of the Man, who leaned into his caress with no fear. 

But within seconds, the Man who formerly welcomed him with open arms was swept away to another city. 

Angry, Death would search, but never find. 

The Man was on the side of the angels. Their imprint of protection would save him until the end of his years.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope that you liked this fic. I had wanted to split it into a two shot, but felt that unnecessary. 
> 
> Tell me what you think, if you have any constructively criticism, if it met expectations.
> 
> I truly hope none of you have gotten triggered by this; please remember that your life is not your own. Please, keep your hands off it.
> 
> Thank you for reading the ramblings of an addict.


End file.
